Industrial Sabotage
by Rapa-Nuiz
Summary: Pre-TFA. When Perceptor is brutally attacked in his Metroplex quarters, the Intelligence Guild immediately suspects the Vox, Decepticon-funded bounty hunters. But Nightbeat, along with Wheeljack and Red Alert, suspect something more personal is at play.
1. Incident

**19/04/11:** This chapter has been "fixed" and re-uploaded to comply with continuity information given in _The AllSpark Almanac, Volume 2_. Namely, the location of the crime has been moved to Metroplex (given as the location of the Guilds Domesticus), and a few other minor continuity errors have been fixed.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Some concepts and plot devices used in this fan fiction are purely made up, and cannot be found in the _AllSpark Alamancs _due to me not having written them. :P

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><p>CHAPTER ONE<p>

INCIDENT

When he and Wheeljack had first been moved to the Council's private housing, located deep within the walls of Fortress Maximus, Perceptor had spent a good deal of time complaining about what he saw as the gross misuse of resources whilst Wheeljack rolled his optics and unpacked heavy crate after heavy crate. The central concern of Perceptor's cold ire had been the oil-bath room, a large, sound-proof chamber that housed an oil-bath that could have cleaned two hundred Bots, let alone two. It was kept simmering at a gentle but cleansing temperature, Red Alert explained, and was changed every four days. This did nothing to improve Perceptor's attitude towards it, and he avoided using it as often as possible. The Council itself had several small oil-bath rooms located within the Ministry of Science, for those working heavy over-time, and they suited him just fine.

Today, however, he was begrudgingly grateful that he could bathe away from his colleagues. Fixing Wheeljack's latest disaster had meant spending a long time in alt-mode – both of them – and after the first twenty or so hours, joints he didn't even know he had were thumping dully against his nerve receptors. For possibly the first time since joining the Ministry, Perceptor had cried off work early and gone slinking jerkily home, moodily tapping his way through a few documents as he stalked along the silent streets. He paused outside his door and peered into the blackness surrounding him. A sound? No, his audials must be mistaken. _That comes from working too hard for too long,_ Wheeljack's voice echoed in his head. It was a lecture he'd heard too many times before, and it seemed like his own mind was now turning against him. Perceptor growled. He wasn't in the mood.

As though he knew he was being spoken of, Wheeljack activated their personal commlink. Another Ministry service Perceptor would rather do without – Ultra Magnus had insisted that all departments be able to keep in constant contact with one another, and therefore every individual had commlinks to all of their colleagues. It was an irritating addition to an already overloaded set of rules, and Perceptor was determined to bring it up at the next Council meeting. He was having trouble enough focusing on his projects without having that annoying nudging sensation suddenly press without warning against the edge of his mind.

"_What?" _He snapped.

"_Hello to you too,_" Wheeljack's cheerful voice boomed into his consciousness. Perceptor glowered as he finally located his key-card amongst the various items he was carrying with him, let himself into the house and stalked straight for the oil-bath room. "_Did you make it home okay? You looked really messed up back there._"

"_Yes, I'm here." _Perceptor glared at the viscous rainbow-sheened liquid. _"What do you want?"_

"_Aw, listen to sparkling! You definitely need an early night._" Wheeljack teased. Then he turned serious. _"I've gotta pull overtime – just a few lines of code and, er, a correction or five – and I can't find my key-card. If I ring the buzzer will you let me in?" _

Perceptor clicked his denta together in annoyance. "_It's only our first month here and you've already lost your key-card?_" He blinked up at the harsh lighting, then began to search the walls for the switch that dimmed them. His optics ached. _"That has to be some kind of a record, Wheeljack."_

"_I know, I've never kept something for so long! I'm as surprised as you are. So is that a yes?_"

"_If I hear the buzzer, I'll let you in. I'm only going to rest for a few hours anyway._" Perceptor located the switch and turned it almost all of the way down. Thankfully the metal flooring around the bath had been painted cream, so he could still just about make out where the edge met the churning liquid.

"_Hey, ah-uh. Red Alert told you to recharge until dawn. Then maybe she'll let you back in the lab."_

"_Red Alert is not my superior. I will come back to work when I am ready to._" Perceptor reached one arm around the back of his neck-strut and began to unclasp the lens barrel he carried on his shoulder. He hadn't been aware of how heavy it had become, and was only too thankful that his chassis type allowed detachment.

"_You know she can lock the Laboratory doors if she wants to._" Perceptor could almost see Wheeljack's smirk. _"Ooh, I'd better go. She's glaring at me now. I'll speak to you later." _The commlink went dead. One of Wheeljack's more appealing qualities: he knew when to end a conversation. A very good quality, one of which their new lab assistant had not yet learnt. Radion. Brash, boastful, lumbering, imbecilic, stupid, inane, loud dolt. Perceptor could probably think of more adjectives if he had had the energy, but he refused to waste valuable time complaining to himself about the new member of staff.

A few minutes later he already felt the oil working wonder on his joints. He was at the shallow end, barely submerged, holding a datapad in one hand and a mug of low-grade in the other. Whenever he needed to flick the page of his datapad he used his little digit, but the text was small and tightly compacted so this didn't happen very often, even for a speed-reader such as Perceptor.

And given the fascinating subject of the text – fascinating to Perceptor, at any rate, any less scientist would merely find it incomprehensible – he didn't think anything remiss when his audials registered the door to their quarters swish open and shut with unusual haste. Nor did he think twice about the footfalls behind him. It was only when two servos clenched around his neck-strut and hauled him kicking and flailing out of the warm oil that his conscious mind remembered Wheeljack's missing key-card, and the fact his partner wouldn't be home for several more hours.

Wheeljack leant against the outside wall of his home and kept his digit on the buzzer. When Perceptor still failed to appear at the door, he let his head fall softly against the hard metal wall and tried his commlink again. Nothing. The line was open, but Perceptor wasn't responding. He checked his internal clock. 01:12. It was feasible that his partner was in recharge, but Perceptor had always been a light sleeper and after this amount of time he ought to have responded to the buzzer, if only to smack Wheeljack with a data-pad for waking him up.

At this point, Wheeljack didn't think to consider anything wrong. Perceptor was just about as anti-social as anybot could be, and it was Wheeljack's opinion that he had simply gone back to work at the Ministry and that they had somehow missed one another. He considered briefly going back to look for him, the settled for walking across the street and trying Red Alert's buzzer. She answered on the second ring.

"Look, I know I said 'see you soon', but I didn't think it would be this soon," she grumbled. "What's the matter?"

Wheeljack grinned. "You know how to bust locks, right?"

She pursed her mouth-plate. "Officially or unofficially?"

"Yes or no would do it."

"Yes. But I haven't done it in years." She looked over Wheeljack's shoulder at the deserted-looking house. "I guess Perceptor isn't answering? That's odd. I thought you said he had trouble recharging?"

"Yeah...I figure he's snuck back to work. Can you let me in? Think of it as aiding a patient who urgently needs rest," he added when she frowned.

Ten minutes later they were stood on the open threshold. Something cold began to slosh around in Wheeljack's fuel tanks. "Um..." He said. "He always leaves the living area lights on. Always. I didn't even think they had an off switch."

Red Alert, whose house was a mirror image of her neighbour's, turned to the left and felt along the wall until she found the switch. When she flicked it, nothing happened. "Now that is very odd. If it was a power cut, it would have hit me too. The whole estate's on the same grid." She formed her arm into a torch and switched it on.

Under the piercing beam of light they approached the berth-room. Both berths were empty, and neither of the tarps had been disturbed. "Um..." Said Wheeljack again. "Percy's a neat-freak, but he never _ever_ remembers to straighten the tarps. Ever. Not even in the Academy. I used to bug him about it at inspection time, only time I ever got to get one over him, heh." He was babbling, and he knew it. Of course it was perfectly obvious that Perceptor could have just gone straight back to the Laboratory after a short oil-bath, but his partner had seemed genuinely tired and had even said over the commlink that he was going to have a rest before returning. He turned towards the doorway. The oil-bath room was directly opposite the berth-room, and he suddenly felt certain that he didn't want to go in there. It was as dark as the rest of the house, and the white door-frame seemed to loom threateningly through the dark, like an unknown future destination in a nightmare. The one you spend the entire dream fighting against moving toward, but no matter what you do your pace never slows and the nightmare never ends. He shivered.

Red Alert caught his frightened gaze and nodded. "Wait here," she said. When he moved to protest she cut across him. "I've had my military training from the Ministry. You two haven't as of yet. If there is somebody in the house, you'll only hinder me. Stay here and only come if I call you."

She stole quickly and silently across the living area floor, then paused beside the frame of the oil-bath room door. She faced a dilemma. She wasn't armed, and she couldn't risk losing the torch on her arm for one of her laser cutters. She cast her optics around the dark living area. Perceptor's microscope attachment was lying discarded on a bench in front of the televiewer. She went to retrieve it, then stopped. Using two digits she carefully rolled it over, then recoiled sharply. The side that was fabric-down was covered in mech-fluid.

"Wheeljack," she said slowly. "Go across to my place and call Fortress Security. Tell them we've got a possible Code Seventeen. They'll know what that means."

"So do I." Wheeljack replied quietly. "What have you found?"

She pointed her torch at the front door. "If you want to help, go now. I can't call them and...and help in this situation all at once. Please. Go." It was a practical suggestion, but it also helped to mask the fear she felt when she straightened up and turned once more towards where she knew the oil-bath room door was. Once she heard Wheeljack leave – vents working more heavily than they were a few moments before – she swung the torch back around and started to move towards the imposing door-frame.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach it. Once she was halfway there she caught the faint whiff of spilt mech-fluid; stood in the entrance, torch pointing in at the mess her friend had become in just a few short hours, it was all she could do not to lose consciousness. Trembling, she activated a commlink to her most Senior Nurse and requested an emergency medical team and plenty of equipment used for keeping a patient alive whilst in transit. The Senior Nurse asked for the extent of the injuries, and Red Alert replied that since she was obviously standing on the periphery of a crime scene, she didn't dare risk touching the bo...the patient.

"_With all due respect, ma'am, can you at least confirm the patient is alive?" _Senior Nurse Siren was no fool. She knew how to not waste medical resources on hopeless cases.

"_He hasn't faded yet, but he will soon." _Red Alert tore her optics away from the scene and tried to focus on a nearby wall. It was glowing faintly pink. Smears of fluid everywhere. She felt herself retch, and stumbled out of the chamber, just managing to keep her tanks in check. _"Siren, get everybot here. Everybot who graduated from the Academy at least a couple of years ago and knows a think or two about...about mess."_

Siren caught the message. "_Yes ma'am. Address?_"

Red Alert gave it to her and rung off, staring blankly at a holograph hung on the wall next to the berth-room door. It was of 'the team', as they called themselves: herself, Wheeljack, Perceptor, Mainframe, Botanica. All looking contented. All looking alive. She physically shook herself and activated another commlink. It simply said: "_Code Seventeen confirmed._"


	2. Fallout

Responses

**Vivienne Grainger** Thank you for the encouragement and commenting on my stories so far!

**Wolfyfox3** We have quite a ways to go yet, but I hope you like the next chapter.

Also, a big thank you to everyone who's added this story to their Story Alert, and me to their Author Alerts. It's very encouraging! =)

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><p><strong>IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT CHAPTER ONE:<strong> Having gotten the _AllSpark Almanacs_, I spotted a few glaring errors in Chapter One, and went back to fix them. The only major thing readers need to know is that the incident took place in the _Metroplex_ (home of the Guilds Domesticus), not _Fortress Maximus_ (home to the Elite Guard). I also didn't have regular internet access at this point, so the mistake was all mine. I won't make another. :)

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><p>CHAPTER TWO<p>

FALLOUT

Botanica floated down Corridor 31-C towards the Science Guild, her right servo pressed to her temple and a fierce frown slanting her optics. If she seemed distracted to passers-by it was because she was dealing with three commlink communiqués simultaneously: one from Cliffjumper, head of Metroplex Internal Security Division (M.I.S.), who was attempting to exercise media damage control; one from Alpha Trion passing on the Council's commiserations and unofficially instating her as acting Head of the Science Guild; one from Rattletrap, asking if she was up for "dinner" any time soon. As she successfully closed all three conversations, a fourth line lit up. Nightbeat, requesting an interview.

Well, he could wait. She had interns to deal with.

The news had hit around 02:00 hours that morning. At first all that could be understood from M.I.S. was that a member of staff within the Science Guild had been attacked, and that officers would soon be arriving to check on the private information servers and the condition of the Main Laboratory. Alarm bells ought to have rung at that point, considering that the Main Laboratory belonged solely to Perceptor and Wheeljack, but she had been still bleary-eyed from a night out on the town in Iacon, and had simply assumed it was another drunken intern-related bar right.

At 02:26, she had been contacted by Highbrow Prime himself and informed that Perceptor was in critical condition in Metroplex Infirmary, and that Wheeljack was in an M.I.S. interview room being questioned. As the third most senior Bot in the Guild, she was the only individual who could take charge. The Council would put the relevant details through in the morning, thank you and goodnight. As communiqués from the High Council went, it had been surprisingly detailed.

She sighed to herself. This was going to be tough. All of it.

The interns had been gathered in the Main Laboratory at M.I.S. request, and muttering to each other worriedly as they mingled around the familiar benches and equipment. They silenced as one and turned to face the door as she slipped inside the room. Watching, waiting.

"As you will no doubt have heard from the early morning's telecast, one of our own has been attacked." She prefaced. "As of yet there are no key witnesses or suspects, but agents from Metroplex Internal Security will be dropping by later to take statements from each and every one of you. I do not want you to worry. This is all routine in an M.I.S. investigation. However, I do wish to stress one thing: if any of you, _any of you,_ remember seeing or hearing anything odd yesterday, no matter who was involved, please state as such in your interview. This is an extremely serious matter and lying will not make it magically go away. I also ask that you try to keep gossiping to a minimum. Primus knows we're all fallible, but malicious rumours could hurt this investigation even more than lying could. If you have any concerns and wish to discuss them with me in private, I will be in my office all day after assisting M.I.S. in arranging the talks. Are there any questions?"

Radion, who had been circling the perimeter of the group with his arms folded and his handsome head held high - he was the Chief Intern, personally assigned to Perceptor and Wheeljack's small team of two, and as of such now seemed to permanently walk as though his back-strut was bent the wrong way - raised a servo.

"Ma'am," he said before she acknowledged he could speak. "Do you think the Decepticons were involved in the attack? I hear it was pretty brutal."

Widened optics and another sweep of worried murmurs. Botanica wished it were legal to shoot annoying underlings.

"No." She said firmly. "I'm not sure where you are getting your information from, Chief Intern Radion, but pinning this happenstance down to Decepticon terrorism is counter-productive, and if I hear any member of staff spreading such erroneous facts amongst other departments, _severe_ disciplinary action will be taken. Do you understand?"

"Um...ma'am?" A shy young femme in the front row of the crowd timidly raised her own servo. "I er, I don't think it's right to, er, chastise Chief Intern Radion...I mean...he's just repeating what he heard on the late morning telecast."

Botanica blinked at her. "What?"

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><p>Nightbeat crouched down in a pool of mech fluid and squinted at the small, jagged-edged metal that had been lying underneath the victim. He regarded it steadily for a few minutes, then cursed to himself and withdrew from the room. He found Hosehead in the Living Area, co-ordinating the forensics team.<p>

"Vox," the senior detective said simply. Then: "Monacus. Thrull. Slag."

Hosehead looked bewildered. Hosehead spent fifty-six per cent of his life looking bewildered. Nightbeat had worked this out once whilst getting very over-energised at their favourite watering hole, The Leaky Oil Barrel. Fifty-six per cent. He spent the other thirty-four per cent being used as a sounding board, and as of such knew when to shut up and listen. Now was not one of those times. Hosehead scratched his head with one thick digit. "You get all that info from a cheap-looking poker chip?" He asked.

Nightbeat grunted. "They have to be cheap. Most chips get stolen from Sheol to mark gang hits."

Bewilderment gave way to puzzlement. "Gang hits? Are we still talkin' about the boffin case? They left a callin' card?"

Nightbeat tried not to look as exasperated as he felt. "_Please_, Hosehead, try not to refer to the victim as 'boffin' when we're talking to the Guild or Council top-noggins, eh? I've got enough bad news to deal with without my partner slaggin' off Ultra Magnus, right?"

"Right." Said Hosehead determinedly. "So...Sheol? Monacus? Vox?"

Nightbeat dropped down onto one of the clean benches and pulled a cygarillo from one of his many hidden storage compartments. He lit it using a spark generated between thumb and foredigit. "I swear Hosehead, you've never lived. Monacus is a small moon orbiting the planet Thrull in Decepticon-held space. Within the confines of the so-called capital city, Capricorn, lies a small bar-_cum_-casino named Sheol. And Sheol, when it's not being used to suck up the credits of those poor unfortunate gambling-addicted souls, is a base of operations for a somewhat freelance group who call themselves Vox."

Hosehead looked stuck.

Nightbeat continued. "We're talkin' bounty hunters here, Hosehead. Megatron's own personal army of bounty hunters, although truth be told they'll do anything for anyone who pays well."

Hosehead's jaw-plate dropped. "You think Megatron put a hit out on Perceptor?"

Nightbeat shrugged. "Evidence says yes. Using a Sheol poker chip as a calling-card is very, _very_ Vox. But me personally? It doesn't make any sense. Perceptor is head of the Science Guild, but that doesn't mean whackin' him will stop any of the work goin' on there. I've seen the Bot's lab, he writes everythin' down and nothin' has been stolen or wiped, accordin' to Mainframe. Wheeljack wasn't able to give me all the details, but he assured me their latest project was civilian, not military, focused. Somethin' about a new form of energy conversion, to be used in the less-well-funded areas of Cybertron."

Hosehead's mouth-plates thinned, a sure sign of severe cerebral activity. Eventually he said: "Unless...the Decepticons are mounting an attack...and don't want Cybertron to have the resources to fight back! An energy-converter would be good for military use, too."

Nightbeat blinked. "That's...actually a very intelligent observation." He said.

Hosehead beamed.

Nightbeat shrugged. "So why not just shoot anybody involved on the project? There's gotta be fifteen, twenty mechs and femmes workin' various angles. Why only beat up one of 'em?"

The beam evaporated. "Uh...a warning? To discontinue the project?"

"The Decepticons took no prisoners durin' the Wars. I see no reason for 'em to spare a scientist and leave such a vague message. And Vox-style woulda been to use his mech-fluids to smear a warning on the wall." Nightbeat's processor took a quick memory-sweep of the crime scene. "Uh...even more than they did in this case, right?"

Hosehead looked stumped, and vaguely sickened. "So now what?"

Nightbeat threw himself to his feet. "Now we go report our findin's to the Council. Reckon they'll make that Highbrow Prime lubricate his pelvis plate, even if I think they're worthless. I'm goin' deep into bureaucratic territory here, partner. Wish me luck."

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><p>"What the Pit is going on?" Botanica exploded as she stalked into the High Council Chambers. "What is all this...this <em>slag<em> on the late morning telecast? Are we trying to terrify people?"

Ultra Magnus's clear, commanding voice rang out in reply. "At ease, Botanica. The telecast was not authorised by us, nor did it broadcast on an official channel. We have operatives questioning the pirate station now."

"Pirate station?" Botanica repeated. "So the fake information wasn't broadcast on Cybertron Today? Or Newsbyte? Oh, thank Primus. A much smaller circulation rate."

"We should be so lucky." Cliffjumper growled from his own dark corner. "Bad news always travels faster than good news. We were just in time in stopping Cybertron Today and NewsByte from broadcasting the information under the vague banner of 'leak from an official source says'."

"Scandalous," said Highbrow Prime. "Completely scandalous. Media clamp-down is essential in these cases. What."

"Agreed," said Ultra Magnus. "How is the Science Guild holding up, Botanica?"

Botanica smirked humourlessly. "Oh, you know interns. One sniff of a scandal and they're crawling all over each other with glee and half-remembered falsities. Nightbeat has his deputies running interviews, asking about movements and behaviour within the lab yesterday. Considering Perceptor was attacked in his own home, I don't see it helping much."

"Agreed," said a fourth voice. Nightbeat scuffed his way out of the shadows to Cliffjumper's right, pretending to be analysing something on a data-pad. He approached Ultra Magnus's throne directly and shrugged his shoulders.

"I think you got a problem," he said. "Or you haven't, which makes things worse."

Ultra Magnus raised an optic ridge as Highbrow Prime scowled. "Explain."

"Found this under the vic." Nightbeat flicked the poker chip at the Magnus, who caught it deftly in one large servo. Tearing his disapproving optics from the M.I.S. detective, he opened his fist and peered at the small object. It took him two seconds to realise what it was.

"Primus," he said. "Vox."

The effect on the rest of the Council was immediate. Highbrow went very pink in the face; Alpha Trion folded his arms and sank deep into thought; Botanica gasped and gaped.

"Vox? In Autobot-held space? Surely not!" She squeaked. Then, embarrassed at her outburst, she continued: "Surely they would not have gotten past border control."

"Woulda if they'd had some help," Nightbeat growled. Then he faced Magnus again. "Trouble is sir, none of this makes any sense. I think the chip is a red electoherrin'. Doesn't make any sense for Megatron to target the Science Guild."

"Makes perfect sense," Highbrow Prime spat. "Decepticons only lost the war because of their scientific inability. Would leave them feeling bitter. Perfect motive for revenge. What."

Nightbeat smirked. "If they got Vox agents on Cybertron, why not target a Magnus? Seems a more...direct route to me. Sorry, sir." He added as an afterthought.

Ultra Magnus gave the detective a long-suffering look. "You forget, Nightbeat, that Perceptor is the second-highest ranking official of the Guilds Domesticus," he said, not unkindly. "He has been at the forefront of several civilian-orientated actions over the past few years, most of which could seem controversial in nature. Just because the Science Guild has attached itself to more military-orientated projects recently, you must remember that the average Autobot on the street would also be directly affected by whatever decisions Perceptor - and by extension, the Council - make on a daily basis." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "To this effect, if I may suggest that Highbrow Prime investigates military motives whilst you and your team investigate civilian-based protest and terrorist groups, I believe you can cover double the ground in half the time. Unless you already have suspects of your own, of course."

"Nossir. Yessir." Said Highbrow Prime, smartly.

"Right you are," said Nightbeat. "If someone could send us a list of recent civilian motions the Council has looked at...?"

"Certainly." Said Ultra Magnus. "One further recommendation - investigate everything. I am sure there are certain things better left alone in the interests of scandal, but I am more concerned with discovering why Perceptor was attacked, and if it's a danger to planetary security - civilian threat or otherwise. You have your orders. Dismissed."

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><p>Red Alert had always believed herself to be efficient. Under pressure she became a calm and capable medic, and after the shock of finding Perceptor had worn off she had leapt into action and, she believed, more than adequately saved his life. It was not something she would crow about; she only felt a profound sense of relief in not having to inform Wheeljack that she had failed. Perhaps this was selfish in the same way, but she was also reassured by the genuine warmth she felt towards the crippled mech in the repair-berth before her.<p>

The warmth cooled down considerably when her glance shifted slightly to the left. M.I.S. had sent their own forensic officer down as soon as Perceptor's condition was stabilised, and the mech in question was now scrutinising every wound on the victim's frame with an efficiency that bordered on neurotic.

Red Alert suddenly felt she didn't want to be thought of as efficient. She would settle for competent, if anything higher meant being shallowly associated with Infrared.

"The extent of the injuries is quite frankly shocking," Infrared said insincerely. From the look on his face-plates, Red Alert guessed he was secretly having a ball. Must be a nice break from deducing who started which bar fight at Autobot Camp tribunals, she told herself. "The injuries to the neck are the most interesting. What was your diagnosis?"

"Crushed vocal synthesiser," she said instantly, then cursed herself for showing an interest beyond the normal medical protocols. Oh well, in for a credit, in for a cube. "It would seem to me that the attacker first disabled his vocaliser so he couldn't call for help."

Infrared beamed. "Very good! My thoughts exactly. It looks like we are dealing with a pro."

Red Alert folded her arms. "Oh?"

"Disabling an intended victim is not as easy as it sounds, even with a, ah, pacifist like Perceptor. Not only did the attacker first knock out speech capability, he then disabled the back-strut nerve pathways that led to the legs, as well as both optics. And I have a sneaking suspicion that the second blow to the head disabled his commlink. Unable to call for help, see his attacker or escape from him." He paused. "And yet...weapon of opportunity. If this was a professional, then why did he not bring his own weapon with him? All of the wounds were caused either by incredibly strong servos or Perceptor's own microscopic barrel; seems awfully remiss, somehow..."

Red Alert's audials tuned out for the last part. _Unable to call for help, see his attacker or escape from him_. She felt the nausea that had hit her at the scene come hurtling back and excused herself hurriedly, bolting for the private room's door and only just making it to the femme washroom in time. She purged her entire tanks, then slumped to the floor and held a servo to her temple.

_This is a nightmare_, she thought to herself. _It has to be. Autobots don't do things like this._


End file.
